by Peter Benson
On your knees.
The sisters licked their lips.
Odo took a deep breath.
Turold waited for the Queen to leave the workshop and cross the precinct yard, then he slapped his knees and laughed.
‘A woman,’ said Odo, ‘should not be allowed to…’ and then he stopped, turned away and kicked his left ankle with his right foot.
‘Allowed to what?’ said Turold.
Odo shook his head.
‘My Lord?’
‘Go back to your work!’ Odo narrowed his eyes, put his chest out and pointed. ‘Never forget,’ he said, ‘who I am.’
‘How could I?’
‘And who you are.’
‘I am…’ said Turold, but Odo was away from the workshop, crossing the precinct yard slowly and waiting at the gate for a moment, until he was sure he was safe.
Martha and I have fucked in the lodging, and as we were lying afterwards, she asked to see the hanging.
Tonight?
‘Show me now.’
It is late.
‘Show me.’ She put her mouth to me, and licked me.
The moon is full, the workshop is cold, Turold is working by candle-light. The midnight bell has rung, he has not noticed it. He has a jug beside him, but has not touched it. His mind is concentrated, he works without knowing what is happening around him. The more he works so the more he wants to work. The story is driving him as a rider on a horse. The whip is on his back, spurs are in his sides, the road is clear. His fingers, his eyes and his mind joined at the gates of his invention, banged on them, refused to leave; he did not look up when I pushed the workshop door open, pulled Martha inside and led her to the first strip.
Here and there candles burnt in holders, and strips of moonlight broke through gaps in the walls and windows. The workshop was a dreamy place. The frames were invisible, so the hanging floated in the air. The light drifted, the flames guttered, breath rushed from Martha’s mouth, she stood before the first scenes and bowed her head.
I stood next to her. She looked up and stared into Edward’s eyes. She put her fingers up to Harold’s dogs. She glanced at me, I nodded, she touched the hanging and shook her head.
As her fingers touched the wool, I felt a crack in the air. I know she did not feel it, and Turold was not disturbed, but it was there. It was as if threads were snapping all around me; I looked down the strips, but they had not moved. I looked above me. A bat dived towards my head, twisted over a candle and flew towards Turold. I watched its flight, I decided to keep bats. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ said Martha.
There is nothing like it.
‘Show me some you have done.’
I took her hand and led her to the boy in the border; I traced the outline of his body and the length of his slingshot. The stone misses the birds, who fly to a tree. She put her finger on mine and said, ‘You did this?’
I nodded.
‘He is you?’
Yes.
‘And this is Turold.’ She touched his image, then took her finger away, as if it had been burnt.
Yes.
She looked down the workshop. ‘He doesn’t mind us being here?’
I shook my head.
He sat at the last strip, sewing into the face of a fleeing English soldier. A circle of candles surrounded him, the bat flew into the light and out, the hiss of his needle, his face craned towards the work. His eyes were full of urgency, he threw a huge shadow on to the wall. This moved with the flames, Martha took my hand, her lips were pursed and her eyes were wide.
We walked slowly around the frames. She looked in a trance; her feet made no sound on the floor, she held her fingers to the hanging, but did not touch it. She traced the shapes of men and horses in the air, she shook her head at Harold at Bayeux, she smiled at the horses in the ships. Her face relaxed, she hunched her shoulders, she looked older than she was, when I put my face to her hair she did not notice.
I could hear her mind and I could hear mine. They were working together, her thoughts were slowed down by the art, mine sat on their back and whispered. The bat squeaked, it flew from the ships with wind in their sails to the slaughter of English soldiers to the quicksands of the Couesnon to its roost. It hung there for a moment then dived again, over our heads to a place in the dark by the door.
I concentrated on the word ‘Martha’, and put it in my belly. Tonight I was going to take air from a whistle, swallow it, make it grab the word and shoot it out of my mouth. Martha’s hand was in mine, we reached the end of the fourth frame and I tripped over a bench.
‘Who’s there?’ Turold’s voice was tired. ‘Robert?’
Martha snapped back from where she was with panic in her eyes; she grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘Robert?’
I touched her cheek and shook my head. I walked around the frame and along to where he was working.
‘Robert?’
I stood beside him.
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘What are you doing, creeping around?’
I smiled, put my hand over my heart and Martha came behind me.
‘Ah…’ he said, and he grinned. ‘Nowhere else to go?’
I shook my head.
‘Speak for him, Martha.’
She was afraid.
‘Do not be afraid.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see the hanging. Robert brought me.’
He held his needle in his hand. ‘Did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
I had the word in my belly, sitting on its own, and I had the note of the whistle in my head. The bat flew through the light again, a dog barked once, Turold’s needle twinkled.
‘Can you stitch?’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He gave the needle to her. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘show me.’
‘But…’
‘No buts!’ He stood up, picked her up and sat her on the bench. She stared at the figure of the fleeing soldier. He was waving an axe, running from the Norman horses as they crashed to the ground beneath the English ridge. ‘Give him an eye.’
Martha held the needle between her fingers. She was shaking, she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out, so she jabbed at the soldier’s face, pulled the wool through, took a deep breath and moved away.
‘Again,’ said Turold.
Martha did as she was told.
Here is the word and here, beginning softly but getting louder all the time, is the whistle. It is a low note, it could be the wind though a hole in the door. It could call a pigeon and it would catch a word. There is no trick to it, no skill that cannot be learnt. I am growing, and as I grow I learn.
‘You could work here,’ said Turold.
Here is the word.
‘No, I don’t think I could do as well as you or the sisters.’ She looked at me. ‘Or Robert.’
‘You could!’ he said. ‘If you wanted.’
The whistle is pure and round, like an apple. I could bite it, I could hold it and tell you what colour it is.
‘I could not leave the bakery. Mv father would not allow it.’
‘Your father would change his mind at the sight of silver?’
Blue.
‘I will ask him.’
‘Do,’ said Turold, and then he turned to me and said, ‘Why are you whistling?’
I whistled a moment longer, swallowed my breath, pushed it into my belly and forced it on to the word. It covered the word but did not stick. It rushed out again. Turold said, ‘Are you all right?’
I nodded. The word melted inside me.
‘What are you doing?’
Nothing.
‘I think you two are making each other old…’
What?
‘…as you are supposed to.’
A second bat joined the first and they flew together, as if attached by wool
. The wool was light, they circled each other and landed on the hanging, and crawled across the untouched sketches of the death of Harold. They had mouse heads and pigeon feet, leather wings and ears the size of leaves. ‘My pets,’ said Turold, and then he took the needle from Martha, and turned back to the hanging.
25
A solemn Lady came for Turold, and asked him to follow her to the Queen. I followed too, across the precinct yard to the gate, down the alley to the street, up the street to the market square, across the square to the palace.
Word had been left at the gate. The Lady knew the guard. As we passed, he whispered in her ear. She put her hand to her mouth and giggled behind it, then put on her solemn face again, led us to a small door, showed us inside and told us to wait.
As we sat on a bench by a window, Turold put his hand on my knee and said, ‘What surprise has William got for us?’
I have no idea.
‘Something to worry Odo?’
Could be.
‘I think so,’ he said, ‘but I hope not. However far the Bishop goes, he’ll only ever be William’s half-brother. That gives him enough grief; I do not think he needs any more.’
Are you supporting him?
‘He cannot help being who he is, no more than I can help who I am.’
Below us, the sound of marching soldiers cracked across a yard. It was a cold day, a hard wind blew from the east.
“We were all born by accident,’ he said.
What accident? Turold speaks his thoughts without explaining them. He thinks we can read his mind, but we cannot.
‘Master Turold?’
‘Yes?’ He stood up, brushed his tunic and smoothed his beard. Another Lady had come. Her dress was finer than the first’s, and she carried a sheet of parchment. ‘You may come with me now,’ she said, and led the way.
We crossed the main hall to a small door in the wall that led to a flight of curved stairs. We climbed these to another floor, passed through a curtain and into a corridor.
The corridor was long and brightly lit, and filled with the smell of lavender. This smell was so strong that I put my hand to my nose and breathed through my mouth. Turold sniffed once, smiled at the Lady and waited for her.
Rooms led off the corridor. We walked the length of it, turned a corner at the end, the Lady put her hand up, we stopped, she knocked on a door and waited.
I heard the sound of rustling skirts and curtains being drawn. Turold wore a calm face, I wiped mine, the sound of feet echoed down from the floor above. The door opened, another blast of lavender blew up my nose, the Lady took one step into the room and said, ‘Master Turold, your Majesty, and…’ she looked at me ‘…his boy. I understand he accompanies his master wherever…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Queen, and she bustled from the window to where we were. ‘We know Robert.’
‘Majesty.’
‘Thank you.’
The Lady bowed her head and bit her lip. She held her sheet of parchment tight. She did not like me and she did not like the Queen. She was as tense as a dead lady. ‘My duties…’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said the Queen, and she waved a hand. ‘You may return to them.’
The Lady backed out of the room, the Queen watched her leave, the door closed, the Queen looked at it, shook her head and turned to Turold.
‘Turold,’ she said.
‘Your Majesty.’ He dipped and kissed the ring.
‘And Robert…’
I was on one knee. She put her hand on my head.
‘I have something for you.’
Turold was on his feet.
‘But sit first.’ She smiled, her eyes were moist and her hair hung down. It was black and shiny as a bat’s, and reached to her waist.
We sat on low chairs, she sat on a high chair, so her eyes were level with his. His knees nearly touched his chin, he held his hands between his legs.
‘Here,’ she said, and she passed him a roll. ‘In the King’s hand, drawn on the banks of the Couesnon.’
He took the roll and said, ‘The Couesnon flows through a scene in the hanging.’
‘Yes.’
Turold unrolled the parchment, spread it on his knee and looked at it. He squinted, he scratched his head, he looked at the Queen, then back at the scene and said, ‘What does it mean?’
The Queen smiled again. ‘You have no idea?’
‘None.’
The Queen rubbed her chin. ‘Ælfgyva is not a name you know?’
‘No, Majesty, it is not.’
‘Never?’
Turold looked at me.
I shrugged.
‘Ælfgyva,’ he said, shaking his head. He passed the sketch to me. ‘Never.’
The parchment was torn at the edges and stained with mud and rain drops. I smoothed it on my knee.
A tonsured man, dressed in tunic and cape, leans towards a woman who stands framed beneath a pillared gateway. His hand is held outstretched, and brushes her cheek. William’s hand was not as skilled as Turold’s, but he gave the man an expression of regret and the woman one of love, and here, over the gateway, the text ‘Where a cleric and Ælfgyva part.’
‘Who was she?’ said Turold.
‘She is,’ said the Queen, ‘a sister, in York now, I believe.’
‘And the cleric?’
‘Do you need to ask?’
‘Bishop Odo?’
‘I never replied…’
‘And what have they to do with the hanging?’
‘Another question?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Turold. ‘I did not mean…’
‘The King has his reasons.’
‘I never…’
The Queen held her hand up. ‘It is your job to complete the hanging, Turold.’ Her voice was stern. ‘And whatever his Majesty wants; that is his privilege.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘You are forgiven,’ she said, and her voice lightened. She rubbed the corner of her right eye with the tips of her fingers. I could see a piece of grit stuck there. ‘Take the sketch back to the workshop, stitch it in place and do not forget: you are working a scene designed by the King.’
He bowed, rolled the parchment and said, ‘Your Majesty.’
She stood, we stood, the smell of lavender was strong. ‘This is one chamber I wish you to consider,’ she said, ‘but later. I will call for you again.’
‘I would be honoured.’
‘I know,’ said the Queen, and she banged on the door. The tense Lady opened it from the outside, we bowed and left.
Turold showed Ermenburga the King’s sketch. ‘What does it mean?’
‘You do not know?’
‘Would I ask if I did?’
She studied the sketch.
‘Would I?’
She frowned and said, ‘No,’ impatiently. ‘You would not.’
‘So?’
‘All I know is what I heard.’
‘Is that all anyone knows?’
‘Not if they were there. Not if they saw it happen.’
‘Of course. But even then, the truth can twist.’ He pointed to the hanging. The text read ‘Here Bishop Odo holding a mace encourages the young men.’ ‘Odo told me that this is what he did, and he was there.’
‘The Bishop’s word is proved by others, and I think,’ said Ermenburga, and she tapped his knee with the tip of one finger, ‘you know that.’
He did.
Odo wears a quilted jacket over his hauberk, and the young squires, who believed that William had been killed, rallied. Eustace, the papal gonfalon in his left hand, pointed with his right to the Duke, who raised his helmet and showed his face. It is truth because Odo said it was, William agreed, the gonfalon breaks into the border, the young men resume their charge.
‘I only know what I am told,’ said Turold, ‘and I know nothing about this.’ He tapped the sketch. ‘And if I am to translate it, I must know what it means.’
‘Ha!’ Ermenburga laughed. ‘And what is translation?’
‘Discovering what something means, and giving it a different voice.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes?’
‘So if you are to translate it, you must know what it means? What does that mean?’
‘Abbess!’
I dropped a stitch.
‘Master Turold?’
‘Who is Ælfgyva?’
‘She,’ said Ermenburga, ‘is a sister in…’
‘York?’
‘You know…’
‘That is all I know.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘Please,’ said Turold. ‘How many more times?’
Ermenburga looked at him. I could not translate her eyes. ‘It is said,’ she said, ‘that of the women Bishop Odo has known, she is the only one he regretted leaving.’
‘Ælfgyva?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this?’
She shrugged. ‘A year after the conquest, maybe two…’
Turold tugged his beard. He regretted having it cut, there was not enough to pull. ‘And it is common knowledge?’
‘I do not know. Some people have heard the story, others have not. Common knowledge…’
‘Did he love her?’
Now Ermenburga slipped on the first face I had seen her wear, the one in her cell, the stick-faced queen of Nunnaminster. She did not know about love between men and women. She knew about respect, she knew about companionship but she wore Christ’s ring. The thought of Bishop Odo loving a woman, the idea of a woman loving him, disgusted her. She straightened her back and said, ‘How should I know?’
‘You did not hear?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I did not.’
‘But their parting,’ he said, ‘to be reminded will upset him?’
‘Maybe…’
‘So why does William wish to include it?’
‘Maybe he wishes to upset the Bishop.’
‘He has no reason to…’
‘He has every reason.’
‘It makes no sense.’
‘Why should the sense of it mean anything to you? It is your job to do the stitching, not…’
‘I cannot,’ said Turold, and he took the sketch from Ermenburga, ‘do my job if I do not understand its meaning. To place a scene like this; it is a mystery to everyone but three people, and only one of them wants to be reminded of it. I think…’
‘The King.’